


A New Lease On Life

by sungabraverday



Series: Little Poplin Paylor, President of Panem [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: District 8, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungabraverday/pseuds/sungabraverday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaping time has come to District Eight for the Fifty-fourth Annual Hunger Games, and little Poplin Paylor's name is in the reaping bowl for the very first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Lease On Life

Poplin couldn’t sleep. Of course she couldn’t sleep. It was the night before the reaping, and her twelfth birthday had been just three days before. This was the first time her name would be in the bowl, and fully six times at that. She had signed up for tesserae, of course. With two younger brothers and a little sister who could only just manage two steps, they needed the food, the same as everyone else in District Eight.

Morning rose bright and early, cheerful, even. If it had been any other day, Poplin would have said it was bright with the promise of a new day. Everyone around her smiled at her when she said that. She didn’t understand. Even if it wasn’t the best of days, wasn’t it still better to be alive to enjoy this one?

She slowly lifted the blanket off of her, rolling to her feet. She shivered. It felt colder than it had the night before, even though it probably wasn’t true. She slipped on her best dress and fastened up each of the little expensive buttons with care. She combed through her long black hair with her fingers, leaving it about as straight as she could manage, before smoothing it down flat. It was dirty still, and greasy, but if you didn’t look too close she thought it would be fine.

She crossed from the room she shared with her siblings into the main room of the house, the kitchen. Her father was already out, working the early morning shift in the manufacturing plant. Even on Reaping Day, District Eight never stopped working. Three hours for the ceremony, that’s all that they were allowed.

Her mother was mixing some of the tesserae grain together with water to make a loose gruel for breakfast. Poplin pulled out a stool to reach into the cupboard and take out five bowls, one for each of them. She was careful not to drop them, despite the fact that she was standing on tiptoes to reach, and one by one she set them down on the small counter.

She moved around the kitchen helping her mother with simple things like getting the spoons out and running a sink of water to do the dishes, the same things she did every day one of her parents was home for breakfast. On the days when they both worked the morning shift, Poplin would wake up an hour earlier so she could do everything for her brothers and sister by herself.

When she went to wake her siblings, though, her mother stopped her. “No, sit down. Relax today.” She smiled and held a finger to her lips and reached down into the very back of the cabinet under the counter, and pulled out a small jar that Poplin had never seen before.

She lifted the spoon from one of the bowls Poplin had placed on the counter, and scooped out a small spoonful of the long-crystallised liquid. A large serving of the porridge followed it into the bowl, and Poplin’s mother stirred it up until it was all one thick mixture.

“Honey in your porridge to brighten your day,” her mother explained with a smile at Poplin’s wide-open eyes and surprised expression. “Don’t tell your brothers. It’s just for you.”

Poplin nodded solemnly. “I promise.” She sat at the table, feet dangling above the ground. “Thank you,” she said, and then she began to eat, enjoying every wonderfully sweet bite, as her mother went to wake the other children up.

Time ticked by as the household woke up, and readied itself for the day. Poplin sat on the small couch in the living room with one arm around Eddie and the other around Ray, chattering in an animated voice. She told them a story about an enchanted girl who could talk to birds, and had her finger pricked by a spinning needle and fell into a deep sleep until a prince came to save her. It was her favourite.

While outwardly she was fine, inside she was shaking. Her mother, though feeding little Seam, kept glancing over to check on her, to make sure that she was still alright. Every time she did, Poplin pulled Eddie or Ray a little bit closer, wrapping herself up in their warmth and love. They didn’t really know what was wrong, Ray especially, but they could tell something was, and so they cuddled closer, calming her.

The big clock on the Justice Building chimed eleven, and it was time to go to the Square. Poplin smoothed her hair out again, and her skirt, and kissed her mother on the cheek. Her mother’s eyes blinked, glossy with tears, and she pulled Poplin into a tight hug, kissing her on the top of her head. “It’ll be fine, sweetheart. It will be fine.”

They walked down to the square together, with Poplin only splitting off at the very end to stand in a row with the other girls her age at the back of the square, her best friends among them. She held their hands, squeezing them reassuringly.

At the front, perched on a stage high above everyone else, was a woman dressed in a shocking shade of blue, with fingernails like talons painted in a transition between purple and yellow that reminded Poplin of the bruises she got from working in the factory after school. Her hair was a mass of stark white curls in an updo, twined with blue ribbons. Her lips were puffed and her face looked drawn, as if she were trying to be young as the girls in the Square. She was quite grotesque, as far as Poplin was concerned, but then, she had never seen someone from the Capitol who looked very pretty.

Behind her sat the three Victors of District Eight. Weave was the newest, having won just two years before, still young and beautiful. Woof was beside her, hair gray with age, one of the very first Victors. Beside him sat Eaton, dark and terrifying usually, but now just unconscious. And beside Eaton sat the Mayor, who waited until the crowd had settled before he stood up.

He took to the podium to begin the ceremony. He recited the story of the history of Panem and the origins of the Hunger Games. They had learned this story in history class at school a hundred times before. Poplin listened quietly, trying not to fidget. It was hard to stay still and listen to the story that she could have recited right along with him, but she did her best.

The Mayor finished, and the two reaping bowls were brought out, one for the boys and one for the girls. This was all exactly as usual, but it was also different this year. Never before had her name been in the bowl before, and she had never seen this all with her own eyes, always having been in the wings watching on monitors. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling in any way, and she squeezed her friends’ hands again in a desperate assurance that it would be all right.

“Welcome District Eight!” The woman from the Capitol beamed cheerily, her accent grating on Poplin’s nerves in an instant. “It is such an honour for me to be here!” It was easy enough to tell that she didn’t think it was all that much of an honour, really. District Eight was not a frequent winner in the Hunger Games, and she surely was aiming for a more prominent place.

She smiled and beamed and fluttered her bruise-coloured fingers around some more. “It’s time now to select the courageous boy and girl who will represent this lovely district in the Fifty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!”

“Ladies first,” the Capitol woman cooed. She reached her hand into the reaping bowl, swirling the papers around with her talon-like nails. Her fingers closed on a single slip, which she lifted out and held up high for everyone to see. She smoothed it out to read, and in the affected accent of the Capitol announced, “Poplin Paylor.”

Time seemed to slow around Poplin. Her friends dropped her hands, leaving her free to begin the long walk up to the stage. One step followed the other, and she didn’t see anything but the space in front of her that she was supposed to walk into, while whispers and blurred faces filled the air around her. It took what felt like years to reach the steps to the stage. She walked up them blindly, shock forcing her forward silently. Her mind replayed her name being called over and over again, but the words never changed. This was it. She had been called. And as she turned to the audience she shivered with the thought that this would be the last she ever saw of her home.

The woman beside her seemed completely oblivious to her shock, and serenely asked if there were any volunteers. There were never any volunteers in District Eight, and so Poplin didn’t even look up, shock paralysing her and holding her in place on the stage.

And then a girl that Poplin didn’t think she’d ever seen before in her life, much older than her, stepped forward from the front row. Her voice was clear and loud and certain. “I volunteer.”

The square erupted in murmuring. Poplin's head, which had been staring at her feet, jerked up, eyes flying wide open. She tried catch the girl’s eyes, but she refused to hold them, staring straight forwards as she ascended the stairs inelegantly, but determinedly.

The Capitol woman waited until the other girl had reached the stage, and then said clearly, “Poplin Paylor, you are free to go.” Poplin walked down the stairs and all the way to the back of the crowd in a daze. She merged seamlessly into the crowd where she had come from, hugging her friends each tightly.

On stage, the Capitol woman was asking the other girl her name. “Rita, Rita Wheaver,” she said, with what could really only be called a hint of a smile on her face.

“Well, well, shall we have a round of applause here for Miss Rita Wheaver, the volunteer female tribute from District Eight!” The entire square clapped, with a degree of enthusiasm and pride, for this girl who had surprised them all. Poplin cheered quietly and politely from her place with the other twelve-year-olds, emotion rolling through her.

They returned to the rest of the reaping and it’s usual plain progress. The boy’s selection came next, with a boy several years older than Poplin having his name called, and no one stepping forward to take his place. Finally it came time for the recitation of the Treaty of Treason, lead by the Mayor. And then it was over, from now until next year.

Poplin ran into her mother’s arms where she was standing at the edge of the square. She squeezed her tight a massive, teary hug, her little brothers joining in.

When they finally let go, Poplin whispered, “I was so scared.”

“I know,” her mother said into her hair, pulling her close again. “I could see it in the way you moved. And I was scared, too, for you.”

“I have to thank her. Rita.” Poplin looked up at her mother. “I’ll go to the factory right after I go to the Justice Building.” She bit her lip nervously. “I can do that, right?” Her mother's face was still pale, but she nodded permission, and Poplin weaved her way through the dispersing crowd to give her thanks in person.

Arriving at the doors, she tentatively approached the Peacekeepers standing there. “May I speak to Rita?” she asked, nervously kneading her hands into the fabric of her dress.

There was a pause, while they considered. And then there was a nod. “I can take you to her room for farewells. Her parents haven’t come yet. You’ll get five minutes.” Poplin nodded once to say she understood, and the Peacekeeper opened one of the large double doors enough for them to make their entrance.

Poplin was escorted through the Justice Building. It was lined with what had once been a beautiful plush red carpet, but had now become faded and threadbare. The walls were lined with a series of portraits of men with serious expressions on their faces. Poplin stared at her surroundings with wide eyes, periodically tearing her eyes from her surrounding to run a few steps to catch up with the Peacekeeper.

After what felt like a really long walk through halls the size of which Poplin had only ever seen in factories filled with machinery, they reached a door. “Go ahead,” the Peacekeeper said, and Poplin went into the room.

The girl looked so much smaller now, when she wasn’t putting on the brave face for the audience. Poplin hovered awkwardly by the door, suddenly nervous again, but she let it close behind her.

She paused to summon up her courage and then whispered, “Thank you.”

Rita looked up, holding Poplin under her gaze. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come.”

Poplin shuffled her feet awkwardly, looking down to the way her shoes moved on the threadbare carpet. “I couldn’t not say thank you. You - you saved my life.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Poplin looked back up to see that Rita’s eyes were a little bit red from crying, but her voice was firm.

Poplin stammered on her reply. “I know. I just...” She paused for a moment, waiting for words to come. “You still did,” she said finally, “and I’ll never stop owing you for it.”

Rita seemed to deflate. “I don’t need your debt. I did it for me. I did it because I can't stand this place, and there’s no way out.” She sounded bitter, but still sad. “It’s not right, these games. It’s not right that they put us up against people who have been working for this moment their whole lives. And it’s not right that I took this as hope.” Tears were running down her face now, and she brushed them away angrily.

Poplin nodded solemnly and stepped forward to take Rita's hands in her own. “Maybe one day there’ll be real hope.”

Rita blinked back tears to look, really look at her, and Poplin squirmed subconsciously. “You’re so young,” she said. “Hope won’t just come, you have to make your own.”

Poplin blinked in puzzlement, unsure what she meant. And then the Peacekeeper at the door knocked once. Poplin squeezed Rita’s hands once more, as he opened the door and announced, “Time is up.”

Poplin walked over to him, turning back to say goodbye as she left. “Good luck,” she said, a tear running down her face now as well. The door closed behind her, and she was escorted back out of the building.

She waited ten metres after she had left the Justice Building, and then ran towards the factory where she worked. She couldn’t afford to be late, no matter the day’s events. Once she got there she would have more of a chance to think about what Rita had said. How do you make your own hope?  



End file.
